Don't Make Me Forever
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Ever wondered why Malcolm was so hostile to Hayes? This story goes back to the time before Enterprise, and sets the scene for the future to come.
1. 1: Hayes

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

 **This story has been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I owe thanks as always for her insight and invaluable advice. It's dedicated to Delighted, who set me the challenge of writing this particular pairing.  
**

 **Bernhard Muller and Em Gomez used by kind permission of Volley and Chrysa respectively.**

 **This story is AU. Warning: it contains bad language and some sexual content. Anyone who is offended by these should consider this before reading it.  
**

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Sometimes, timing just sucks.

Half a minute later, half a minute earlier, and time would flow on in a completely different direction - and the weird thing is, you'd never have the slightest idea of the narrow escape you'd had.

When you think about it, there must be uncounted numbers of these 'forks of opportunity' in your life. Times when everything, _everything_ , hinges on a whole series of seemingly random events falling into place just at the right moment. If just one card in the whole house falls down, the rest will fall with it; but if every one of those frail, unstable pieces of card holds up for just long enough...

It wasn't like I was on the lookout or anything. Actually, nothing was further from my mind. I'd been ordered to report to Starfleet HQ to start the first phase of my space-flight training, and if I'm honest I wasn't looking forward to the experience. Obviously if I wanted to progress further it was what you'd call a necessary evil - a MACO unit has to be able to deploy anywhere; but I was conscious of the flutter of nerves in my stomach. So as I was sitting on the hopper bus out to the big complex at the edge of the Bay, I started reading through the notes on my PADD. I'd already read through them from start to finish, often enough to have started memorizing parts of the text, but I'm a big believer in it being impossible to be too thoroughly prepared.

The auto-announcer called the stop, and I got off, taking my first look at the place. It was very new and very smart, surrounded by well-kept lawns. The gate guard checked my security credentials and passed me in, and I walked up the avenue from the outer entrance, wondering where I should go. The guys at the guardhouse had been too distracted to think of giving me directions; I gathered from their talk that Henry Archer the designer was coming in shortly to check on the progress of the new engine of his that they were building, and a whole load of other people were also now expected to arrive for whom 'nobody had bothered' to send in the appropriate security paperwork. Still, I'd a tongue in my head and I've never been embarrassed about asking for directions, so I left them to it and walked in and on, trusting that there'd be somebody who could point me to where I needed to go. It wasn't like I was late or anything; my mom always said that _Punctuality is the courtesy of princes_ , and while I didn't have quite that veneration for it I know it's a vital part of operational efficiency, so I always made sure to have plenty of time to get where I was going.

As it turned out, I didn't have to ask anyone; of course, the instructions had included a map. Resisting the urge to whack myself over the head with the PADD (which might not have helped it work so well), I took it back out of my carryall and thumbed through to the appropriate page.

Less than two minutes' walk away. Now, I was over half an hour early, and I wasn't anxious to spend all that amount of time hanging around waiting to be attended to like an item of lost baggage, so I sat down on the rim of a fountain I was passing and prepared to enjoy the early sunshine and watch the comings and goings around here. Maybe I might catch a glimpse in passing of the great Henry Archer himself, though he was a very sick man these days and probably wouldn't be up and about so early.

People walked to and fro about their unknown business, some in groups but mostly in ones and twos. Three Vulcans went by, clad in those long robes of theirs. The oldish guy in front was probably important, to judge by his preoccupied frown and the deference the other two clearly showed him. One of these was a young woman (well, young by Earth standards, I guessed she was probably about seventy in Vulcan terms), who was a real looker. The robes hid most of her curves, but still definitely suggested they were there, and her petite little face had the beauty of a supermodel's. I wondered if anyone had ever gotten up the nerve to tell her so, but looking at the closed arrogance of her expression, probably not.

Twenty minutes. Maybe if I went in and registered early someone might show me where I could grab a coffee.

(I've wished, ever since, that I hadn't thought about that coffee...)

At the time, though, it seemed like a really good idea. Although I was already primed for anything the Fleeters might throw at me, a coffee might help calm the last few butterflies that were still occasionally taking a flutter around my stomach. Although my rational brain knew that I was actually in no danger at all, my hind brain was still responding to the knowledge of the centuries-long feud between 'sharks' and 'squids'. I was in the very heart of 'squid' territory, and I hadn't missed the glances a few people had already thrown at my uniform. I'd have to be on my absolute best behavior around here, because there would certainly be those who'd take any opportunity to stamp down on me just because of what I was wearing. Hopefully most would be above that kind of childish attitude, but there are always a few bad apples in every barrel.

And besides, there would almost certainly be a washroom, where I could make sure I was neat and tidy before I showed up to start the training.

I acted on the thought. And sure enough, the receptionist in my building registered my arrival and then suggested I catch a drink while I was waiting, pointing me in the direction of the cafeteria, which was the first door up the corridor; "Most people like to take one in with them when they start, sir," he added.

"Thanks for the tip." It wasn't standard practice everywhere, but some lecturers are more relaxed about this kind of thing than others. Relieved that I wouldn't have to bolt my drink down to get it finished in time, I made my way to the cafeteria.

It was on the crowded side – not surprising, as a lot of people were catching a late breakfast. I got my coffee and sat sipping it, unobtrusively studying the people around me. I've always been a people watcher, and while I had no particular ambitions along those lines myself, the people all around me were taking part in the drive to push our knowledge out among the stars. I could respect that, even though I wasn't deaf to the voices of protest and warning that we could thereby draw ourselves to the attention of alien races who were a lot less friendly than the Vulcans.

Not that I'd put the Vulcans down as 'friendly', exactly. The few I'd encountered had been like the three this morning: cool, aloof, conscious of their own superiority. But at least they didn't seem to have any ambitions toward colonizing Earth or enslaving Humanity. 'Not worth our trouble', I'd guess that woman would have commented.

Most of the people were in uniform, or at least formally dressed. One table, however, was occupied by a small group who drew my attention, not just because they were casually dressed but because they were such an eclectic bunch. The most noticeable was an Afro-American who'd have made two of any guy in the place; he looked laid-back, but I didn't miss the way his eyes drifted constantly around, observing everything. He didn't say much, but then he'd have been hard put to get a word in edgewise around the argument two of the others at the table were having. The rest were Caucasian. The only woman in the group, an attractive platinum blonde, was arguing with a diminutive guy in an orange woolen hand-knitted hat. From the way he kept pointing to the PADD in his hand, they were disagreeing about something on it. The two others present just sat watching the show. The one was also on the large side, probably did a lot of weight training; he had long blond hair, and an expression of lazy tolerance that said 'business as usual'.

The fifth member of the party had his back to me. He was small, dark-haired, wearing a loose black leather jacket. His posture was relaxed enough, but I noticed one foot tapping rhythmically on the floor; he wasn't as relaxed as he was trying to appear.

Time I was going. I got to my feet and picked up my half-finished coffee.

I was almost level with their table, which was directly on my way to the exit, when the dark one spoke.

I don't even remember what he said. He was looking at the guy in the hat, though he'd turned sideways on the chair as though preparing to get up. Maybe he was thinking of going to the washroom or something, I never did find out.

It was the accent. English. Those beautiful chiseled consonants, delivered in the unconsciously superior drawl of the upper classes.

I don't know why I stopped. It wasn't like I'd never heard an English accent before; there'd been a few English ex-pats in Officer Training School, mostly decent and ordinary. Once or twice I'd heard one of them put on a 'twang', the sort of accent you probably hear at Sandhurst all the time, but this was the first time I'd heard the real thing.

Fascinated? Attracted? Not really. Interested, maybe. Enough to just check for a quarter-second, and glance that way. Nothing more.

Another moment, and I'd have been on my way and forgotten his existence before I was out the door.

Like I said. Timing sucks.

In that quarter-second, he swiveled around the rest of the way and stood up. This brought him practically face to face with me, though not eye to eye, as he was a good half-head shorter. The abruptness of his movement meant I had to stop short, to avoid a collision; luckily I'd drunk a good bit of my coffee, so although it slopped around a bit it didn't spill. And so we stopped, barely a hand-span of air separating us.

You hear about it all the time in books and films. Frankly, I'd always been skeptical. But as I stood there and looked at him, it felt like something had hit me square in the belly, driving the breath out of my chest and thought out of my head.

Not conventionally handsome. Too thin, for one thing, and there was the wariness of the hunted in the way he tensed at my closeness. But his face was classically molded, with aristocratic cheekbones and a firm mouth, and the eyes…. Jeez, his eyes….

The eyes flickered over me, intense and summing. He pointed to the coffee, which I was still holding. "Get rid of that before you go into classes."

"What? But the guy at Reception said…"

He shrugged. "Call it a friendly hint. Take it or not, it's up to you." A faintly ironic grin just touched his mouth, and then he bent down to whisper something in the blond's ear.

I didn't have time to argue; I didn't want to be late for my first lecture. I dumped my half-finished drink on a tray in the disposals area and hurried out into the corridor. There was a crowd at Reception, but I made a note to see how many other people brought drinks into class, and if they did, what the result would be.

One other guy did, and was sent smartly to the rightabout; his ears were still burning when he returned. As I prepared my materials, I promised myself to have 'a word' with the smartass receptionist when I got out of there. Squid v. MACO; hundreds of years down the line, and we're still on opposite sides.

By the time we were allowed out for a break, I'd formulated exactly what I was going to say. As I marched up to the reception desk, however, I was disappointed to see that there was now a lady on duty there.

Still. I might still get my chance; maybe he'd just popped out for a bathroom break.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," I said politely to his replacement. "I'd like to speak to the guy who was on here earlier this morning. Will he be back any time today?"

"Oh no, I'm afraid not. He's had an accident. He'll probably be away for a couple of days. Is there anything I can help you with?"

An _accident?_ This was… "Nothing serious, I hope." I infused just enough concern into the words to give her an opening to pass on more information if she felt like it.

"Oh no, sir. Just a – well, just an accident with a cup of hot coffee. I'm sure he'll be fine. Is there any message you'd like me to pass on?"

"I'd tell him to be more careful with his coffee, but I guess he's already thought of that one."

Her lips pursed disapprovingly. "It wasn't his coffee, sir. Now, is there anything I can help you with?"

Of course, there wasn't. I walked away with my head in a whirl.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

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	2. 2: Reed

At least he had the sense to take advice.

I watched him drop the coffee-cup in the used trays and walk out. I suppose some of me half-hoped he'd look back, but he didn't.

"Mrrowwwww," said Pard, looking up at me with a wicked grin. "Maybe we could share him."

"Behave yourselves," rumbled Leo.

I don't think he bought our innocent looks.

Anyway, I'd got up to go to the bathroom, so I might as well go.

As I washed my hands afterwards, I looked in the mirror. I wondered if I looked different, but I couldn't see any change. Nothing to show how my pulse was thundering...

 _Fuck._

This wasn't on the agenda.

Maybe we'd get new orders. We'd only just got back from a long stint, but that didn't matter to our lords and masters, and in all honesty it usually didn't matter to us either. Sometimes we got enough time to go out on the town and shag a few strangers or whatever else, sometimes it was just pack our cases and go again. Now and then we'd get a few weeks, but personally I hated that. I just hung around the place being bored and got drunk and took risks, the adrenaline junkie going cold turkey. Most of my romantic disasters had come about as a result of too much time on my hands between missions; I got involved with nice women, all of them convinced there was a nice bloke somewhere in there that they could redeem if they put in the effort.

Good plan, on paper at least. Not their fault it was never going to happen, and I got plenty of sex out of it in the meantime.

I didn't often go with men. Not that I had anything against it per se, ever since I'd officially come out as bi in my first year at Uni. It was just that women seemed to see me as some kind of victim of the system. I have no idea why, or even what system I was supposed to be a victim of, but it played into my hands beautifully. There had been a time when I might have felt a pang of conscience about the way I learned to play the game, but those days were long past.

Conscience was a luxury I could no longer afford.

So. Starfleet HQ, and a last coffee after debriefing. Mobile in pocket, ready for the next summons when it came. Pard and Spots bickering over the latest _Times_ crossword. The mission had been a success; my bank balance would be looking good. For the next week, or day, or hour, the world was my oyster. An oyster full of pretty pearls, just waiting to have their clothes removed...

I hadn't even noticed him. Presumably he'd been seated somewhere behind me. If I'd been a moment earlier or later in standing up, I probably never would have noticed him. As it was, I almost cannoned into him, and both of us couldn't help but stop, just to avoid the impact.

 _Bloody hell._ I nearly got a hard-on on the spot.

He was gorgeous. Broad shoulders – and I could guess he'd have a beautifully sculpted body – but it was his face that attracted me. There was so much intelligence in it. It was the sort of face you can _talk_ to, after all the hot, urgent things are done with; the sort of face whose owner won't lie next to you, spent and untouching, in a wilderness of silence.

Now, I leaned on the washbasin and watched the water drain out of it, forming its neat and orderly vortex above the plughole.

If only I'd moved later; if only I'd moved earlier.

I wasn't desperate for sex. I'd had Pard a few hours ago, a quick slammer up against a bulkhead. Spots had passed and tutted at us, pretending to be shocked.

So why was I suddenly aching with need, the want lying in the pit of my belly like a physical presence?

For fuck's sake. He might not even be gay. He might be straight. Or married. Or anything other than available and up for it. After all, I knew what my luck was like.

Pard had seen the opportunities too, and she was a quick mover. I imagined them in bed together, his body surging against hers. My physical response was immediate, adding to my problems. Her body I already knew intimately, but my imagination created his, lingering over the details, watching him pistoning in and out of her.

 _Fucking hell, I can't be–_

Apparently I could. I retired precipitately into a cubicle where I could endure/enjoy the last few seconds in private, biting into my forearm so no sound effects would alert any unfortunate arrival. Fortunately the bathroom was empty just then, and when I was done I leaned against the wall, shaking. I didn't even know what his name was. I hadn't even touched him. I might never even see him again.

Better – much better – if I didn't. If I'd just imagined the intensity of his gaze, the way the pupils of his eyes dilated as he looked down at me. If I never did get to find out how accurate my imagination had been as I peeled him out of that MACO uniform. If I never did get to feel his hands on me, his mouth on me.

Luckily for me, the team were used to the vagaries of my digestive system. Nobody commented on how long I'd spent in the loo, though Leo gave me a short, searching look as I came out again. Pard and Spots were still arguing; I doubted they'd even noticed I'd been away. Stripes had taken out a PADD and was looking at the details of a new breed of some bird or other – he'd probably have one on board by the time we shipped out again.

I walked to the drinks counter. "Coffee, black. No sugar, thanks."

They handed it over.

I walked out to the reception area. I'd thought of something I needed to ask.

I'm _so_ clumsy. I put the coffee down safely, but as I leaned forward I just happened to knock it – just ever so slightly – and I wasn't quite fast enough to catch it as it tipped over. Straight out of the machine, without even a single drop of milk to cool it. Some of it went into the computer, but most of it went into the receptionist's lap in a glorious, scalding flood, ample recompense for his sense of humour earlier on.

His scream echoed around the building. Even people outside stopped and stared.

They got him out of his clothes, hustled him away for cold water and treatment, while I stammered apologies and played the well-meaning Brit twit for all I was worth. Eventually I was hustled forth, still apologising and saying I didn't know how it could possibly have happened.

The team had been drawn by the hubbub. (I have no idea why they heard a racket and immediately assumed it was something to do with me.) None of them said anything, but when we got outside they all looked at me.

"Accident!" I said, holding my hands up.

They all looked at me a bit more. But they knew I wasn't going to say anything else, and I knew that you don't kid a kidder. So eventually we all walked out to the real world and separated. They wouldn't see or hear from me again till the next call came, and none of us knew how long or short a time that would be.

I set off walking towards the nearest beach. I wanted the sense of freedom, of wildness, that the ocean has. I wouldn't go near the water, of course, but paradoxically I love the smell of the sea.

He would be like the sea. Clean, wild, strong. Tasting of salt.

I wasn't as surprised as I should have been when Leo spoke from behind me. He didn't sound angry; just sad, as if he knew he was wasting his time but had to say it anyway.

"Don't take chances with that guy, Jag."

I didn't turn around. I just stood at the top of the beach, my hands thrust into my pockets. And after a few minutes, he walked away.


	3. 3: Hayes

A MACO is first and foremost a professional.

I'd been sent to Starfleet to learn, so I paid attention. I listened, I made notes, I asked questions. I was a model pupil.

I followed every page of the text in the printouts we were handed. Learned what to expect when we were finally deemed ready to start training in zero-G. Listened to the people around me swapping horror stories about people who'd thrown up in their EV suits, or gone into panic attacks when it finally hit them that they were floating in space, nothing keeping them from the annihilating, airless cold but a few centimeters of reinforced fabric, and nothing holding them to the safety of their ship but a tether line just a few millimeters in diameter.

Later, there would be more specialist training; not many of those here, I guessed, would be needing to learn how to handle weapons in reduced or even zero gravity. Most were probably engineers or technicians, sent to get a grounding as part of a 'worst case' scenario, so if they had to function under these conditions they'd know how to cope. The people who were in it for a career probably started younger.

…He hadn't been in uniform. Was he actually a Fleeter at all? Maybe he was part of some kind of external contracting company, just here to do work somewhere.

Maybe he'd already left the building.

I'd probably never see him again.

I joined a group going for lunch. The cafeteria was crowded again, but there was no-one at any of the tables I recognized. I talked and laughed; a few of us swapped phone numbers and talked about studying together. There was a nice girl there, Diana I think her name was, but she wasn't slight and dark and intense, and her accent was Californian.

 _'Take it or not. It's up to you.'_

That ass at Reception, and an accident with someone else's hot coffee….

Would he have done that?

 _Aw, get a grip!_

I'd have gotten a grip all right, if I'd had the chance. I didn't go for casual affairs; I preferred to get to know someone before going to bed with them. But for him, I'd make an exception. I'd listen to that beautiful English voice spitting out expletives as I fucked him.

Love at first sight. Maybe it was love and maybe it was something less elevated. 'Excuse me, would you like to come to bed with me? You can tell me your name afterwards.'

I bet he had an aristocratic name. St John or Alastair or Ffetherington-Haugh or something double-barreled that went back to the Conqueror. I bet his parents lived in a manor house and talked about the glory days when their ancestors lived in castles and serfs knew their place.

I bet he was straight, and wouldn't even think of sleeping with a guy. I bet he had a gorgeous girlfriend who lived in an exec apartment in London, and he flew home every other weekend and made her an extremely happy woman.

We went back for the afternoon lecture. Once again I listened, made notes, asked questions. The lecturer looked pleased by my interest; one or two others had begun to flag, sleepy after lunch.

Time passed somehow.

The lecture ended. We all filed out. I paused in Reception, but he wasn't there.

He wasn't in the cafeteria either.

The early evening was still very warm as I walked back to the entrance. I had a hotel booked for the duration of my course, but I didn't want to go there just yet; I knew all too well what would be waiting for me. An empty bed and endless time to speculate in vain on what had happened, what hadn't happened, what might have happened, what should have happened – _hell, why hadn't I said anything? Something, anything, just to hold him for a second longer…_ Nothing to hold but empty air when there should have been a lean body and a hungry mouth demanding all I could give.

I caught the hopper bus back into town and listlessly surveyed the restaurants near the terminus. I wasn't a fussy eater, and tonight I didn't give a damn what I ate. All I wanted was to put a stop to the one hunger I could satisfy, so at least I'd sleep eventually.

The Italian place looked about the best bet. Like pretty well everywhere it was crowded, so I had to wait for a table, and I solaced the waiting time with a couple of tequilas, deliberately drowning out the warning voice that reminded me I was putting them into an empty stomach. I thought it was ironic that I was finally offered a seat in a booth, the sort normally reserved for parties but so ideal for lovers. Still, it'd do just as well for a man wanting to nurse his bitterness alone.

I checked the menu and ordered the _tagliata di manzo con rucola_. The waiter looked first surprised by and then approving of my fluent Italian; he'd probably assumed that any guy in a uniform would have problems pronouncing his own name properly. He also seemed to approve my choice of wine. I'm usually not that much of a drinker, but just for tonight I'd make an exception. Drowning my sorrows, you might say. On top of the tequila I'd already had it might give me a bit of a hangover the next day, but hell, that could take care of itself. It was a Friday – the course proper would start on Monday, today had been basically our induction day – so it wouldn't matter if I was a bit out of it.

The wine arrived first. Red, a Barbera, swirling into the glass. Served at room temperature. I don't drink wine that often, though we used to have it at home often enough for me to acquire a reasonably educated palate, but for some stupid reason I just wanted a drink with passion in it. We could have shared a bottle, trading drinks, feeling the passion flare. I could taste the wine on his mouth, on his body. Each of the booths had a little candle lit in a holder with fresh flowers around it, and after my first mouthful I set the drink down on the sanded wooden table and stared at the tiny, wavering reflection of the candle flame in the crimson heart of the wine cupped in the gleaming bowl of the glass.

Movement. Someone slipped into the bench opposite me and settled, without fuss. It was an invasion of my privacy, and nobody had even asked if I minded, but maybe he was in a hurry to eat and the place was even more full up than I'd thought. As for permission – hell, I didn't want to talk anyway. Maybe if we'd made eye contact he might have taken that as some kind of permission to start a conversation, and that was the last thing I wanted.

So I didn't even look up. It would be more fun to pretend. I created his likeness in my mind, sitting there dark and intense and hungry, his eyes stripping me. His jacket was open, the black vest beneath it damp with perspiration – maybe he'd been for a run along the beach. I could smell his aftershave, spicy musk.

He must have ordered before he sat down. The waiter brought his meal just after mine, and we ate in silence. He preferred white wine; condensation formed on the side of his wine glass.

I could hear his steady, calm breathing.

There was so much I would have said if it'd really been _him_ there. Instead I concentrated on my dinner, and on the rich taste of the wine as it flowed into my mouth. I wasn't going to get smashed, though I was certainly pushing past the bounds of sense – I could hold this much and get back safely to the hotel, just about. But how much I wanted it to take away the pain of the moment too soon and the moment too late, and the words I'd never get the chance to say.

I finished off with a cognac, lingering over it. The warmth of it burned down my gullet, settled in my stomach like smoldering embers. When I was finished and I'd settled the check I rose, a bit unsteadily. From the other bench the gray eyes watched me, unwavering, predatory.

Could longing create an illusion this real? Heck, I must be drunker than I'd thought.

I was embarrassing some poor stranger who just had the misfortune to look like someone I … someone I could have…

"I know you're not really there," I said at last, pointing at him. "But if you want to, I, I …."

How precisely my memory recreated the crystalline accent, with a laugh now lurking in it. "Your place or mine?"


	4. 4: Reed

_'Don't take chances with that guy, Jag'._

Of course he knew he was wasting his breath. He knew it as well as I knew that he was giving me bloody good advice, which I wasn't going to heed.

My Section training made tailing Mystery Man a piece of cake. I gave him a couple of minutes to settle down in the Italian place before I walked in and joined him.

At least he didn't stand up and walk out. That in itself was a bonus. And there was no wedding ring on his left hand, which was another.

His total lack of reaction to my arrival was a bit odd, though, I had to admit that. I mean, normally if someone sits at your table you usually look up or something, just give them the once-over to make sure they're harmless even if you do politely conceal your annoyance that they've chosen to invade your space instead of finding their own. It's a reaction that goes back to the cave and the jungle before that, and therefore not one that's going to vanish any time soon, but this MACO didn't even glance at me, just went on eating and drinking as though I didn't exist.

Perhaps that was his way of expressing his displeasure at my irruption into his world. Well, if he was going to ignore me then the only thing I could do in return was ignore him, and when dinner was over we could both go our separate ways and forget anything had ever happened.

Not that anything _had_ happened, and it was getting less likely by the minute that anything was going to, but you know what I mean.

I ate my own dinner, _risotto con pollo e funghi_. It was very good, and the wine was delicious. I imagined his mouth, wine-flavoured, travelling down to my...

The emergency brakes came on to that train of thought so hard I could almost hear the squeal of tortured metal. I hadn't felt this out of control since our neighbour's daughter Victoria roped me into her preparations for attending tennis academy by revealing that she wasn't wearing any knickers on court. My subsequent smashes gave her excellent practice – a man never had better reason for getting a ball past his opponent so that she has to bend and pick it up – and she followed up her kindness by allowing me to take game, set and match in the shrubbery afterwards, taking my virginity in the process at the tender age of fifteen and a half.

(I followed her progress to the finals at Wimbledon a couple of years later with somewhat proprietary pride; now _there_ was a girl who knew what she wanted and how to get it. I developed such a passion for playing tennis that summer that my parents actually thought of having me professionally coached, but Victoria's departure in the September magically obliterated my interest, and the idea was fortunately allowed to drop.)

He finished eating and stood up. I tensed. Surely he'd say something now, if only to castigate me for butting in where I wasn't invited?

For the first time since I'd arrived he actually looked at me. He'd put down a whole bottle of fairly potent red wine on his own, and followed it up with cognac on top whatever he'd had while he was waiting for a table, so I wasn't surprised to see that he looked a bit bleary-eyed; to my mind, it was quite an achievement for him to be standing without having to put out a hand for support to stop himself swaying.

"I know you're not really there," he said at last, pointing in my general direction. "But if you want to, I, I …."

Bloody hell, he must be as pissed as a newt. He thought I was, what, a hallucination?

I'd been called a few things in my time, but 'imaginary' was definitely a new one.

However. Nowhere in the rule book by which I played these days did it say that when Lady Luck knocks, you don't answer the door. There were a surprising number of ways in which it was possible to convince him of my very physical reality, and since the gist of his utterance seemed to indicate that he was actually willing to participate, I was more than willing to take care of the rest of things. And once I got going, I could guarantee he'd sober up in damn short order.

The 'his place or mine' bit was more a product of hysteria on my part than an actual request for an opinion. His place, if I knew anything at all, would be a respectable hotel with CCTV cameras. My place was far more suited to my current occupation. There were CCTV cameras here and there, but they functioned only intermittently and I was well aware of the periods when they were conveniently offline. There would be one shortly, and no record would be made of my escorting my inebriated companion into my lair.

In view of all this, I suggested that 'my place' would be more appropriate.

He fell in with the suggestion readily. I paid my bill for the meal, and we walked out into the street.

It was getting marginally cooler, at least as 'cooler' as it gets in a San Francisco heatwave in summer. I breathed the still-warm air and knew a moment's longing for the crisp cold of a November morning back in England, with fallen leaves in mounds underfoot and the smell of the first frost on the grass.

 _Don't look back. Live in the here and now._

'Here and now' was the man beside me, who was still surprisingly steady on his feet as I led him by somewhat circuitous ways towards my apartment. I twisted and turned often enough to dizzy a man who was stone cold sober, as he most certainly was not. I was a Section operative, and he was not going to get a hold of where I lived.

It seemed I definitely hadn't misread his enthusiasm for a close encounter. The door had hardly shut behind us when he lunged at me, and the sensation of his tongue invading my mouth fetched a thrilled moan out of me. For a few moments we clung together in the hall, mouths busy, hands busy, and cocks straining to get into action. I wasn't sure whether he still thought I was an illusion, but I didn't give a damn if he thought I was a Japanese geisha girl in full costume as long as he wanted to fuck me.

Unfortunately, there was one thing I had to do first.

For me, on occasions like this, showering wasn't just hygiene. When I came off an op, there was something ritual about it. It felt as though I was washing off what I'd just done, what I'd just been. Stupid perhaps – I'd be off on another op as soon as I was summoned, ready, willing and able to do Harris's dirty work for him – but it mattered. And for this night, with this man, it mattered more than ever.

He wanted to come into the shower with me, and I don't think the idea had ever seemed so attractive. But still it would involve his putting his hands on my flesh before the soap and water had washed it clean. Afterwards – I'd set a world record for speed-washing, to get to _afterwards_ – things would be very different. But I had to wash myself first.

I pointed him towards the kitchen, and suggested he might make himself a coffee. He had a busy night ahead of him, after all. I was going to make absolutely bloody sure of that.

On the tail of his nod, I whisked myself into the bathroom. My clothes fell in a trail as I ripped them off in my haste to get into the cubicle, grabbing my favourite sexy-smelling shower gel as I went.

It didn't even matter that the water started off cold. Maybe it would help calm me down; I felt like an overheated teenager, and had to apply the gel with some care, thinking the least arousing thoughts I could come up with in case I accidentally precipitated another unexpected event. I don't think that warp-field calculus tables had ever in my life before held such erotic overtones.

I had to be thorough, but I was damn quick all the same. Embarking on another frantic round of calculus tables, I towelled myself dry. Unless he absolutely demanded to go into the shower himself, I couldn't wait another second. I was as randy as hell, and I didn't care how it would happen, but _some_ portion of his anatomy was going to cop the benefit of my use of warp-field calculus in very short order.

I rushed out of the bathroom, half expecting to be pounced on the instant I emerged.

He'd made himself a coffee – the jar was still on the table-top. Perhaps he was in the lounge. I envisaged him half-naked on the sofa, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and suffocated another moan of lust at the thought.

The sofa was untenanted. Perhaps it was just as well; I wasn't sure it would be up to the strain.

He must have gone into the bedroom. I'd sort of been looking forward to removing his clothes myself, but if he couldn't wait to get naked, I was hardly in the mood to complain about it.

Sure enough, he'd slipped into my bed. His coffee was cooling on the bedside cabinet. He didn't speak, but I wasn't sure what there was to say. What I had in mind really didn't require conversation.

I don't know what made me look around for his clothes. They were nowhere in sight. At which point it dawned on me that they were still on him, and that he wasn't giving me 'come and take them off me' looks. His head was motionless on the pillow; his eyes were fast shut.

And at that precise moment, he uttered a soft, but quite unmistakable, snore.

I flatter myself that I'm usually a realist. But that night, it was a while before I allowed myself to wake up and smell the roses.

I started off being gentle. I could hardly call his name, since I didn't know it. But I called him quite a few other things, steadily becoming less and less complimentary.

I prodded him. I pressed the base of a cold tumbler to his back. I blew in his ear. I brought in the vacuum cleaner and switched it on. I turned the telly up full blast until the neighbour banged on the adjoining wall and we had a short but impassioned exchange of views. I did everything but invite the local fife and drum band into the bedroom to practise 'Land of Hope and Glory'.

He slept through the sodding lot.

I plumped down on the bed and glared at him, while I mentally reviewed my options.

After all, there still _were_ options.

He was still ... available, in some respects. And I still wanted him with absolute desperation. Wanted the taste of his skin, the heat of his body. The friction of flesh against flesh. And if he'd still been conscious, I knew he'd have been at me already, and God knows I'd have been giving it him back with interest.

A small, loathsome voice whispered in the back of my mind that he'd definitely been consenting when he was awake, and it wasn't like I'd be taking anything that hadn't been on offer...

But that wasn't what I wanted. As desperate as I was, that wasn't what I wanted at all. He _wasn't_ awake. To touch him now would be to cross a line, one I'd sworn I never would cross. It wouldn't be consensual. The cold hard fact was that it would be rape.

I was several sorts of a scoundrel. Quite a few, in fact. But not that sort.

Finally accepting the inevitable, I let myself keel over on to the bed and banged my head a few times on the pillow. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I hissed. It was the only fucking I was going to do in here that night, that was plain.

Well, I might as well get some sleep if I wasn't going to get any sex, though it was still earlier than I'd normally think of going to bed. The op we'd just finished had been long and demanding, though, and it wouldn't hurt to get an early night, and then maybe – with a bit of mutual goodwill – we could have an eventful morning to make up for what we'd missed out on tonight. Hell, if I played my cards right we could have an eventful _day_. Who knew? If he was up for it, and my phone didn't go, we might even make it an eventful weekend...

That thought helped to wash down the bitter pill of my disappointment, though I was still careful not to pin my hopes too high. Tomorrow would have to look after itself; right now the only thing left for me was sleep. If I could actually _get_ any sleep, with the man of my dreams sleeping the sleep of the pissed right next to me, carefree and oblivious.

I threw my towel somewhere in the direction of the chest of drawers and slid under the light cotton quilt. I didn't have to take care not to disturb him; I don't think the Last Trump would have got through to the insensate git.

I thumbed the remote control for the light, and the apartment was plunged into darkness. I lay in this for a few minutes, staring hot-eyed at the ceiling and wondering if there was any enterprising company out there in internet-land who did strait-jackets as a takeaway, because there didn't seem to be many other ways of ensuring I kept my hands to myself all night.

It was no use. Even the warp-calculus tables had failed to work their magic. My erection was lying on my belly like an unwanted cucumber in a pepperoni pizza parlour, and if I stayed in this bed one more minute, somebody around here was going to wake up with one heck of a surprise.

A trail of expletives accompanied me to the sofa. I didn't have a second quilt, so I got a dry bath-sheet out of the cupboard and threw it over the top of me. It was hardly going to get cold during the night, but even in San Francisco summer I like to have the sensation of some kind of covering.

I could still feel the strength of his body pressing against mine. I could still feel his hands, taste his mouth; just those few moments had left me weak-kneed with anticipation. I could still imagine what he'd feel like when we were both naked, giving in to our desire. I'd been so close – close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, close enough to have felt the strength of his arms around me. But I didn't even know if he'd come with me because he was drunk, or what I'd see in his eyes come the morning. Maybe – the awful suspicion crept over me – this had all just been a huge, huge mistake on his part, and after as short a period as possible of mutual mortification he'd make his escape as quickly as he could, thanking whatever deity he believed in for his narrow escape from a fate worse than death.

I couldn't go on just lying here thinking about it; I'd go berserk.

The solution was – literally and metaphorically – in my own hands.

Fuck the warp-calculus tables.

This time I bit the cushion my head was resting on, my short, sharp cries as much loss and anger as relief.


	5. 5: Hayes

I opened my eyes cautiously.

Okay: this did not look like the room I remembered sleeping in the night before. Actually it didn't look like any hotel I'd ever been in, certainly not one provided on official business.

An even more cautious turn of my head established two more things: that I was alone, and that I had a pounding headache, not improved by the sensation that several dogs had thrown up in my mouth. I next discovered that I was fully dressed. I evidently hadn't even taken my boots off before I got into bed – wherever this particular bed happened to be.

Man, I must have been absolutely canned.

I restored my head to its previous position on the pillow and began to try to salvage what I could of the previous night's events – a process not helped by the fact that the alcohol I'd drunk had made my sleep a heck of a lot less restful than usual. And it wasn't long before the most important of these events fell on top of me like a refrigerator that had been dropped from three or four floors up.

This was most definitely _not_ my hotel room. And my memory had started to dredge up some fairly explosive images of fumbling with a guy in a hallway–

"Shit. Shit. Shit," I moaned. It hadn't been an illusion. He'd found me. He'd taken me back to his place for some hot sex, and I'd passed out drunk in his bed while I was waiting for him to finish showering.

What the hell must he _think_ of me?

I could only think of one thing. I had to make my escape before he woke up. I couldn't bear to see the coldness in his eyes, the disappointment. And it was all my fault. I'd had my chance with him and I'd blown it.

I crept out of the bed.

There was a poster on the wall, of that guy who fronted Fierce Blue Ascot. At this angle, there was a weird similarity to … to Alastair. I'd call him Alastair. I'd never find out now what his real name was. Undoubtedly that was why he'd put it up there, amused by the resemblance; and it hurt like hell for me to imagine Alastair looking just as wanton as the guy in the picture, as he would have done if I'd just managed to stay awake last night. But across it was scrawled in marker pen the title of one of FBA's hit songs, 'Don't Make Me Forever'.

I could have made him forever. Or at least I could have tried.

It was very early. The apartment was silent as I tiptoed to the door, picking up the jacket I'd let fall in the hallway. The door to the lounge stood ajar, but there was no sound from inside.

He was probably still asleep. He hadn't woken yet to despise me.

The door closed very quietly behind me, and I walked away down the deserted street, hoping to see a passing cab who'd take me to my hotel.

=/\=

Maybe, if it had been an ordinary encounter, I'd have stayed. Made him breakfast, eaten some crow, begged him to forgive me. Yes, I'd have begged. Willingly. And I think sometimes that if I had, he'd have forgiven me.

But it wasn't an ordinary encounter. It wasn't ordinary in any sense of the word. It was the night that should have changed everything, and it broke in my hands.

I've never seen him again, in all the years since. I tried to find his apartment again a week later, but I couldn't remember the directions. I ended up in front of an apartment block that was like a dozen other apartment blocks, and the windows stared back at me like blank eyes, till I gave up in despair.

I finished the training, though. Even did some missions where it came in handy, and earned my promotion the hard way, working up the ranks. And I've just had a summons from General Casey to go back to Starfleet HQ, and the thought of it brings me back so much pain it's all I can do to say 'Yes, sir', like the professional I am.

He won't be there. Alastair, or whatever his name really was. I was even desperate enough to go back and stake the place out for a few days, but I didn't see him. And even if I found him again now, he probably wouldn't even remember me, except perhaps as the dumb bastard who couldn't hold his drink all those years ago.

I'm pretty sure I know what the General wants me for. _Enterprise_ is being fitted out for another expedition, and given the Xindi attack the whole world is in uproar; half wanting all the ships we have available kept close to home in defense, the other half wanting the best of our fleet to go out there and kick some ass.

Kicking ass, however, is a MACO specialty. With the best will in the world, a Fleeter 'weapons specialist' probably knows more about weapons than I do, but not half as much as I do about using them. It doesn't need a crystal ball to predict that Captain Archer has agreed – or even requested – that the professionals be called in to give his crew some much-needed backup if the fight kicks off. Sure, he probably already has an officer who can sit at a computerized targeting system and press buttons, but the likelihood is that sooner or later he'll need a real fighter on his staff – one who's done more than just press buttons all his or her life.

If I'm right, this is going to be the biggest responsibility of my life. I'm going to be given responsibility for the safety of the ship that Earth is depending on. I'll probably have to work closely with his Head of Security, but I'm confident we can come to some kind of working relationship, whatever he or she feels about me personally. We'll each have our areas of expertise, and I'll want my MACOs to learn all they can, just as I'll expect the Fleeters to recognize the benefits of learning from us.

The hopper bus is still the same. These days I could expect to be driven wherever I'm required to be, but I take the bus anyway, feeling the familiar ache of sadness. As I sit down in the seat – the same seat as all those years ago – it almost feels like time could roll back. Give me the same chance I had all those years ago.

If only I believed in miracles.


	6. Chapter 6

I lay and listened to him walk out of the door. Not a word. I suppose he'd foreseen the sea of mortification too, and thought it best to spare both of us the embarrassment.

So that was that.

I sat up. I folded the towel very, very, very neatly and put it on the nearby chair. I sat and looked at it for a few minutes, and then I picked the towel up and threw it across the room.

Out of the blankness came pouring an immense, white-hot rage. I barely knew I was moving before the blade of my hand crashed into the seat of the chair, the whole arc of my body behind it.

I came back to myself almost sobbing with the pain, cradling my hand, which was already blackening with bruising all down the right side. My fingers could move, but only just. They probably weren't broken, but I wouldn't be using them freely again for a while.

The chair _was_ broken. Lying on the floor, split down the middle. It hadn't been a very good chair – it was old, and creaky, and once or twice I'd feared it was about to give way. Not that I used it all that often, except as a makeshift ladder when a light-bulb needed changing. But it had given way now all right. It had creaked its last creak, the sacrificial victim to appease my fury and disappointment.

And hurt. Fuck yes, and hurt. If only he'd …. Well, it wouldn't have _killed_ him, would it? I mean, yes, it would have been as embarrassing as hell, but we could… maybe we could….

Somehow. We could have sorted it out somehow, if only he'd tried. If only he'd wanted to.

I'd have met him half way. More than half way. Was I really that much of a mistake? Couldn't he just have said _something_ , let me salvage some iota of self-esteem from the whole bloody fuck-up?

I picked up the pieces of the chair – one-handed, of course – and carried them out to the yard, where I deposited them in the burner. Then I walked into the bedroom.

The bedding still smelled of him. Male, musky, sexy as hell.

I tore the sheet off the bed and bundled it into the washing machine, and set it to boil wash. I threw in twice the amount of washing powder. The pillow cases went in there too, and the quilt cover, even though I had to use my other hand to help strip it off; _everything_ had to be washed. Everything that had touched the man for whom I wasn't good enough.

When the wash was well into its cycle, I came back into the bedroom. The quilt lay where it had fallen. I felt fellow-feeling with it: stripped and dumped, surplus to requirements.

The poster caught my eye, and I smiled bitterly. I wondered if he'd noticed it, and if he had, what he'd thought. Bloody mad job that had been, but we'd pulled it off. Nobody had ever connected the brief but glorious career of Ian Westbury with the demise of a drugs dealer doing a brisk, profitable trade under cover in the music business. I remembered Leo's face of thunder when he came back and told us the latest job we'd been landed with. How Starfleet ever got involved with that was beyond anybody's guess, but then we weren't paid to guess….

Most of FBA's songs had been covers of old late-1900s stuff (that was our core market, the revivalist stuff), but there were one or two originals. I'd written the one whose title was up there, slashed across the poster. It had been quite well received, too, though it was hardly what you'd call a classic. And it came in useful, for all the anonymous women who'd found themselves here in between my ops. The warning was there, plain to see.

It was a warning I should have heeded myself. But I'd ignored it, just as I'd ignored Leo's words on the beach. Because I wanted to have something that wasn't meaningless. I wanted to have something that mattered, and I wanted it with a man I'd met in a cafeteria yesterday morning. A man whose name I still didn't even know.

 _Don't make me forever_

 _I'm just playing games_

 _Life is now or never_

 _Jump into the flames_

My own words had been a prophecy. Because I'd so nearly fallen, so nearly committed. And instead I'd been burned up, _another_ would-be relationship falling like a comet and burning into ashes.

My phone warbled. It was in the pocket of my trousers, still on the bathroom floor after last night's tragi-comedy.

"Tomorrow morning," Leo's voice said. There was never any more than that. I knew the place and I knew the time. There was another job for us to do.

But this wasn't quite all, not this time. After a second, he asked, guardedly, "You okay?"

I passed my hand across my face. Suddenly I was so tired, and so heartsick I could hardly answer him. "I'm fine."

"Good. I'll see you there then." There was a click, and the dialing tone sounded. He didn't believe me, of course. I should have had the sense to fall in love with Leo instead.

… _Love?_

I shook my head frantically, panicking. It wasn't love. I didn't do love. It was just a passing fancy, the latest in a long line of meaningless fucks. Or fuck-ups, as things had turned out.

Pard would be there of course. I'd tell her what had happened, making it sound like some bloody great comedy where the laughs were all on me. I'd tell all of them, and they'd fall about laughing before they commiserated with me about the stupid bastard who'd missed the shag of a lifetime, and then we'd all move on and forget about it. And sooner or later the day would dawn when I wouldn't wonder what his name had been, and what might have happened if either of us had spoken rather than staying safe in the silence that destroyed something that ...

... that might have been.

=/\=

I never saw him again, of course. We shipped out the day after, and as things turned out we didn't see Earth again for the best part of two years. Busy years they were, and there were times when it was frankly astonishing we all got out of it with our hides intact.

We started to get a reputation. The 'lucky' team. The dirty, 'lucky' team, who got things done. The team who sank slowly lower and lower into the underbelly of a dirty department, until there were days when we didn't even look at each other.

I couldn't even say for certain what turned me against the life I was leading. I still got a kick out of it, was still young enough to feel a certain thrill in being outside the law, but more and more often I was struggling to justify, even to myself, my actions in carrying out orders that no court of law on Earth had sanctioned. Maybe for some of them the end did justify the means, but that didn't make the means any less repellent for those of us who had to do the dirty work. And slowly, slowly, my role as one of Starfleet's hired killers began to repel me too. It became harder and harder to meet my own eyes in the mirror and pretend I didn't care.

Then Pard died. Our luck had finally run out. Maybe the others thought I was their luck, because it happened on the op before I left; I'd already handed in my resignation, but agreed to do this one last hit. And she died. But I don't think they blamed me, not really. It's a hazard of the job, and it could just as easily have been me who took those three projectiles in the chest.

So I left the Section, and here I am aboard _Enterprise_. Deep in preparations for our new and dangerous voyage, in search of the Xindi, that mysterious race who for reasons of their own have decided that humanity is a threat to them that must be eliminated. So the captain says, and I'm sure he has his reasons. He's currently on Earth, in the latest of many meetings to arrange everything; T'Pol took our morning briefing today, and mentioned that he'd had several meetings with General Casey. I know of the General, though I've never met him personally of course. He's one of the bigwigs of the American wing of the UE military, the MACOs' C-in-C.

At the word MACO an old, familiar pain stirs. I wonder where he is, and who he was; whether he's ever thought of me since. Why should he, though? I'm the lover that never was. The man he left without a word, all those years ago.

I could have found out who he was, if I'd tried. God knows the Section has more information on most people than they'd care to imagine, and I could have searched the MACO database till I found his picture. I toyed with the idea, over the next few days while we were en route to the job, but for some reason the link to the database was playing up, and by the time I'd realised it was working again, sense had reasserted itself. What would it have achieved to find out the name of the man for whom I was just an embarrassing mistake?

Pah. I've more to do than brood over old history. I've got to go over these latest upgrades with the Jupiter Station techs. I'm not happy the phase cannons are as good as they could be, and I think there'll be storms when I tell the techs that. But if they don't like it they can bloody well lump it. I'm the one who'll have the job of keeping the ship in one piece using this weaponry, and I'm going to have them up to my specifications before we set out or somebody will find out exactly how unhappy I am about it.

And I hope that Captain Archer had enough faith in my team to tell General Casey and his whole sodding parcel of MACOs to take a running jump. And that we won't linger here much longer, because who knows when the next attack will come? Certainly not me, and I won't be happy till I hear Travis receive the order to prepare to launch. Fortunately this should be fairly soon; if the station techs won't or can't make the improvements I want, Trip will be more than willing to co-operate with me on it when we're under way. (I never thought I'd regret the day I wasn't the only one to have the motto 'There is no such thing as too much firepower', but that poor bloke is haunting _Enterprise_ like a angry ghost, thinking vengeance will cure his pain. It won't, but he sure as hell won't know that till he finds it out for himself.)

Hoshi has announced that the captain's shuttle is approaching now, and I automatically run a scanner check on it to make sure everything is operating properly and it's on the optimum approach vector. Oddly enough, however, there are several other people on board the shuttle apart from the captain and the station pilot. Nobody else from the ship is missing. If a visit has been scheduled, I should have been notified – after all, I am the head of Security.

I also notice, with a creeping sense of foreboding, that my long-range sensors are picking up a troop transport ship heading out from Earth. Ever since the attack, all non-vital traffic has been stopped. Every flight is closely monitored. If this thing is headed our way, there's a reason for it. A reason I don't know, and if there's one thing I hate it's surprises. Except if they're nice surprises, of course, like Hoshi's pineapple cake, but the whiff I'm getting off all this bloody well doesn't smell of pineapple. It smells of a captain who doesn't think his own crew are good enough. Who's been in meetings with General Casey, who thinks his sodding MACOs shit sunshine.

Well. It's been a few years since I've had such a prickle of warning run up my back, but I trust it when I get it. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. And I glare silently at the readout as the shuttle comes closer to the ship, with those other three people aboard that no-one's seen fit to mention to me. I can smell a rat. A MACO rat. And no bloody MACO rat is going to find life easy aboard _Enterprise_ , I can promise them that. This is _my_ ship, _my_ territory. This is _my_ pack.

And I'll fight for it. As hard as it takes, as dirty as it takes. I'm the fighter the captain evidently thinks isn't good enough. Maybe the General's little pets think so too. They'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, one of those dots on the shuttle is undoubtedly the Head Rat. He's the one I have to take on. He's the one who'll be swaggering on board like he owns the place. He's the one who thinks he's come to take over from a weakling whose own captain thinks he isn't strong enough to do the job.

 _Come on, then, if you think you're hard enough!_

 **The End**


End file.
